Remember blogging?

Blogging was that thing you did when people read articles instead of headlines, editorials instead of 25 THINGS YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE, and books instead of 10 MIND-BLOWINGLY AWESOME FACTS TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOURSELF.

Blogging was that thing you did when friends read about your life in chunks bigger than than FB statuses and longer than tweets; when they liked what you wrote instead of Like what you post.

Damn, remember those days, though?

I remember that strange, ticklish curiosity that came with the anticipation of reading about someone's day even after you just finished spending that same day with them. I remember getting to know close friends through two voices: their funny, friendly, in-person voice, and their reflective, thoughtful, more formal blogging voice.

Just a nostalgic thought.

~~~

I've been too busy to pick up the pen and notebook lately, and my thoughts are too scattered for my writing hand to keep up, so I thought I'd let the keyboard do the work and jot down a few odds and ends here.

Last Thursday was Thanksgiving... again. "Time flies like an arrow" as one of my Japanese coworkers loves to say (that, and "There'szu... no yoo-su... eh... cu-ry-in-gu... over spilt milku."). This Thanksgiving, there were 6 guests and 2 hosts sitting around two tables pushed together. Just over half of the guests were American, everyone brought a dish, and I think two of the dishes could qualify as "American".

All of us at the table have known each other for anywhere between 3 months to a year and a half now (besides Brian and I). We're all at that stage with each other where we still want to be impressive, we still try to be polite, and we still ask each other getting-to-know-you questions. Every now and then, we slip it into hilarious slapstick comedy moments--the types of moments you can only share with either the most open-hearted of strangers or the closest of friends. Whichever of the two categories our motley crew falls under, I'm happy to have them.

Last Saturday, Brian, Aki, and I set off to run another 16-milers--my third attempt three weeks in a row. The first week, Brian and I got somewhat lost in the winding countryside roads of Japan, until darkness fell and we had to slow to a crawl due to the absence of streetlights. The next week, we started running after breakfast, but before lunch. Then, for the first time, I experienced the worst stop-in-your-tracks crash from lack of...? carbs? salt? sugar? ...that we had to stop at a convenience store to gorge on nothing less than rice balls, cup ramen, koroke, and an energy bar before hobbling the rest of the way home. Finally, this past week, I prepared by eating three (!!!) rolls of Ritz crackers, some chocolate, and an energy bar on top of my usual stack of banana pancakes. I was set. I blasted through 13 miles at an entire minute per mile (sometimes more, at 9'30") faster than my usual pace... and then promptly crashed again before reaching mile 14.

I'm running more than ever, faster than ever though, and I'm well on my way to achieving my goal: 10-minute mile pace for marathon #3.

Sunday, I took a Japanese proficiency test. I've been studying my tail off for the past year, and even more so for the past few months. I took the second to lowest level for the test--the level at which would put me at the conversational and reading level of a Japanese 8-year-old--and I'm proud of my progress. I don't even know if I've passed yet, but it was satisfying to be able to sit down, listen to instructions entirely in Japanese, read and answer questions on whole paragraphs in Japanese, listen to full conversations in Japanese, and be able to understand (most of) what was going on.

The test experience was interesting in and off itself. Walking in, I felt like an immigrant in America about to take my test for my U.S. citizenship. There were people from what felt like every country ready to take a test in Japanese in that room. I heard conversations around me in not only English, but Chinese, Korean, Thai, Tagalog, and Spanish... and those are only the languages I could identify! Despite the fact that we all share the commonality of being a foreigner in Japan (a much, much harder role to play than can ever be understood unless experienced (read: getting kicked out of a public place for having a tattoo, being asked if I can eat fish, and being talked about in Japanese because they thought I couldn't understand... and that was only in the past week)... despite that fact that we are foreigners trying to fit in without really wanting to be Japanese, while knowing that we never will fit in... despite sharing the fact that we were all there to try to prove and earn a piece of paper certifying that we, indeed, can communicate in Japanese at the level of a third-grader... despite all this that we share, it never fails to amuse me that the only way I can even attempt to communicate with all of these other foreigners just like me is in broken, childish, Japanese.

Oh, and just to prove again that world is a tiny place, I ran into a crew of Filipino auntie-friends who I had met a year ago when I first came to Japan. Shortly after that, I looked up from my assigned seat and saw that the young man assigned to sit behind me was a guy I hadn't seen since we first met in university back in California. What. The. F.

Life is strange.

~~~

I'm getting ready (i.e., worrying and fretting because it's too early to do anything else) to make another big transition. The only thing sure to change is where I'll live and from where (...if...) I'll be getting my paychecks.

It could be so easy to stay. I already know all the benefits to staying: a pay raise, cheap rent, the friend's I've made, more vacation days than I can use in a year, proximity to un-traveled-by-me countries--not to mention living in an entire not-enough-traveled-by-me country. I'll have paid off all my loans, so all money that comes my way would be my money for-realsies, not just my money for-one-day-while-the-transfer-to-student-loans-payment-clears.

I know all the risks for leaving: not being able to find a job right away, not having a place of our own right away, entanglements with getting visas, packing up and moving again, resettling, the cost of resettling, learning the ropes for a new job again, not having any friends, maybe even having to learn a new language.

On the other hand...

Risks for staying: getting comfortable.
Benefits for leaving: having a new, different place to live, packing up and moving again, resettling, learning the ropes for a new job again, making new friends, maybe even having to learn a new language.

I think the "other hand" wins.

It's scary to make a leap... but I rather like the situation I'm in now better than the one I was in before. Now, I'm pushing myself, challenging myself to jump rather than running away blindly to anything at all with my tail between my legs.

Change is change, whatever the stimulus or the back story.

~~~

One of the books I'm reading now is If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. She's great. I thought the book would be trite, cheesy, and well-meaning, but useless, but she's actually got me writing. Thanks, Brenda.

Eduardo, who recommended Ms. Ueland's book to me, says that when he writes, he writes to her. That got me thinking... I never thought about who my audience is when I blog. Not explicitly, anyway. But I always had an audience, or rather, an audience member. I always had one lone person who I was writing to. I'd always visualize that person reading my posts, imagine what they'd think, wish I could talk about what I wrote with them afterwards. He or she--my solitary reader--would change over the years as I continued blogging. He or she would always be a friend whom I personally knew; it'd be someone who I know reads my posts, someone who I know I can be my serious, formal-self with.

Now, when I write for wider audience (like for the book I'm working on, my imagined editorials that I have not yet had the guts to send to the New York Times, or for my guest blog post entries that I've never actually been invited to write), I have no idea who to write for. Should I still write for you? Should I imagine someone else or should I imagine a version of you, one who will understand and accept where I'm coming from even when I write with a difference voice?

I don't know, I'm starting to confuse myself.

~~~

Dan Brown, famously known for The Da Vinci Code, but who also wrote the book which I much preferred, Angels and Demons, did a question and answer forum online a few weeks ago. One reader asked him to comment on writers and artists who are too afraid of criticism to create anything.

Brown suggested this: create something. Then, when it's finished, promptly throw it away before anyone has a chance to see it. Do this everyday. Then, one day, when you've created something you can't bare to throw away, you'll know you've made something worth the while.

~~~

That's enough for one blog post. Stay warm out there, folks!

A Letter to the Present

Dear 25-year-old self,

It’s the year 2023. I write to you from the future. I guess you’ve figured that out.

I’m you at 35 years old. Hey, you’re still alive. I don’t know why that’s always your first question—you sometimes wonder if you’re a bit of a hypochondriac, but then you wonder if labeling yourself as a hypochondriac makes you not one (like how self-identifying as crazy makes one sane enough to not be crazy) or if diagnosing yourself as a hypochondriac is just one of the deliciously “meta” coincidences of life.

Anyway, hi, you’re alive and well.

What does being a middle-aged person feel like?

First of all, I’m not middle-aged, thank you very much. I’m only 35 for cripes sake. I’ve just had my first child—you know me… er, you... us?—always waiting ‘til the last minute. I know you really, really wanted twins, but she’s only one, healthy, baby girl. Taking care of her sure does feel like taking care of more than one baby, though. If she doesn’t need feeding, she needs changing or burping or bathing or just want to cry for no visibly curable reason.

I’m taking a little time off of work right now. Before you jump at my throat with your loaded gun of a feminist speech rant, I literally just had our baby three weeks ago. Give me a break. I’ll be back to work in no time. I love our baby, but you and I both know that we can’t dedicate our whole entire selves to one thing/person/job we love.

I know you’re dying to know what our job is now, but I’ll let you figure that out for yourself in a couple of years.  Or a few years. Or a year. That’s a secret.

What I can tell you is that you love, love, love your job right now. You searched all your late-young-adult life for the perfect dream job. You lived passionately and searched desperately and wondered what you were doing wrong to have never found Mr. Right Job.

And then you stopped worrying about it. You let life happen. You appreciated all the things you did have, like a loving S.O., a healthy and happy family, two funny, smart, independent sisters, and travel opportunities of a lifetime to name a few. Right now, your ‘right now’, in the year November of 2013, you’re worrying about your next step in life. You’re worrying so much about that next step in front of you when you’ve got at least ten more to get to where I am here in 2023.  Those steps will come, my dear, don’t you worry about that. Life is not a ladder that you climb and climb with all your strength, it’s a moving escalator. You can enjoy the ride or you can race to the top, but trust me, the future—my present—will come whether you want it to or not.

OK, so I won’t tell you what I do, but I can tell you a bit about our life now. As I write to you, I'm at home in front of computer on a small desk in a modest study room. Yes, you have a study room. And now you’re thinking of the little extra room that you have in your apartment in Japan. That was a cute study room, too, but you never used that desk to write despite how inviting the room is for contemplative, undisturbed writing. This study room, the room I’m in now, is used to its fullest potential.

As I look around me, I see several shelves stocked with new and old books, most of you’ve read, but many you haven’t gotten around to yet. There’s a huge collection of picture books in one corner, a few editorial-type books, plenty of self-help books (all of which you’ve skimmed and put down before finishing completely), two shelved (!!!) of memoirs. The rest of the shelves that line the wall are stocked with fiction novels. You bought all your favorite books that you had first read on your Kindle or borrowed from the library or bought once upon a time and lost in the shuffle of moving from country to country.

The wall to the left of me is covered with photographs from your travels, including the same pictures that are on your wall right now from your first Asia tour. Among other photos, there’s one of you in front of the Pyramids, a picture of you and Brian on a train in Europe with yours backpacks, and a picture of you in a jungle smiling with a tropical bird sitting on your head (I won’t tell you which jungle you’re in because the story of how you ended up there is better experienced than heard and is so serendipitous that you wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway).

In front of you is a large window overlooking a green park. It’s nighttime now. The cloudless sky and bright moon illuminates the blue-blackness of the cityscape, making the view look clear as day.

On your desk is three notebooks (you still haven’t gotten over your squirrel-like obsession of hoarding notebooks)--two small ones and one medium sized one—a Spanish grammar textbook and Spanish to English dictionary, a novel in Tagalog, a framed picture of your parents from the time that you went to Kauai together, a drawing done for you by one of your students, a thank you letter from another student, two curt rejection letters from two publishing companies, a polite rejection letter from the New York Times, and a royalty paycheck that you have just taken a picture of with your smartphone to deposit into your bank account (can you believe people still use checks nowadays?).

It’s November, but it’s warm where I live, so I’m wearing the jinbei you bought in Japan in 2014.

What else can I tell you? I’m infinitely happy right now. We’re financially stable, not rich, but stable. You’ve run 19 marathons (the last one being at least 10 months ago… you’ve kept in shape as best you can  though, and Marathon #20 (Greece!) is coming up). You attempted two ultramarathons. I won’t tell you the results of either, but I will tell you that I don’t regret entering each of those ultras. You write a lot—several hours in a day sometimes. The writing life is not as romantic or even prolific as you imagined, but you slug through the pain of exhaustion, rejection, writer’s block, criticism, and self-loathing like a champ, if I may say so myself. You’re lucky to have the support of your entire family, your friends, and your husband, who have all been wanting you to write for longer than you’ve wanted to write.

I guess this is where I'm supposed to close with some 35 years aged words of wisdom: Don't be afraid of change. Experience and endure failure--in fact, you've failed epically a few times by then (your now), and you lived to tell the tale right? You haven't seen the end of your road of failure yet, and I hope you never do. I know that sounds harsh, but if you're not failing enough, that means you've stopped attempting new and challenging things. If you're not failing enough, it means you've gotten comfortable or you're afraid. Stop being afraid. Don't compare the new with the old. Take control of your emotions and choose to be happy. Let go of inhibitions and be yourself, even when your true self seems strange and foreign to others around you. You are strange and foreign to others around you. Don't be lazy. Don't Be Lazy. I'll say it again--DON'T be lazy. Take care of your body. You're independent, proud of it, and good at it, but start taking care of others. Go out of your way for students. Be there for your sisters. Be helpful to strangers. Follow through with your commitments. When a deadline is approaching, honor the deadline, not your perfectionism. Leave good enough as is. Stop and reflect on the road you've traveled. Never stop writing. Never Stop Writing. NEVER stop writing. No matter what. 

Enjoy your travels.

Sincerely,

Me/us/you

A Message from the Present

Dear 15-year-old self,

It's the year 2013. I write to you from the future.  I know that in the year 2003, you're contemplating many morbid yet genuinely curious thoughts of life, death, mortality, and purpose, so I may as well get this bit out of the way: you are still living, breathing... and still writing vain self-reflective blog posts, apparently. 

Allow me to introduce myself. I'm you, ten years from now. You survived high school, graduated university, and you have a job. Spoiler alert: you're a teacher. Glad to have gotten all that out of the way. Now, I know that my revealing all of that bears little to no weight on you right now because until every single one those things comes to fruition in the next 10 years, you'll continue to writhe and worry about each thing and then turn around and say that it's because you fussed and fretted about every little detail that you were able to survive, graduate, and what have you. There's nothing I can do about that.

Moving on, then.

I know that what you most desperately want to know is what being a grown up feels like. I know that you think that feeling of being a grown up will come in a "long, long time from now--in, like, 3-5 years". Let me tell you honey, that "I'm a woman, now" feeling will settle in in about 10 years.

Here's what it looks like, though:

You live abroad right now. It's November and you're wrapped up in a mustard and maroon colored fleece cloak, sipping on Ceylon tea (you've taken to tea a bit, but you're mostly drinking it out of politeness, as it was given to you by a coworker who just came back from England). You're at work (a high school), but it's a slow day because it's exam season, which is why you have time to write this letter. Your desk is scattered with the following items: 2 grid notebooks, one Japanese grammar textbook, Tupperware which contained the made for lunch, leftover beef stew you cooked last night, a pair of glasses (yes, you wear glasses now, just like you always hoped), a water bottle, an apple, one of your pocket journals, your Kindle (it's like a tablet on which you can only read books. Oh, a tablet it like a computer without a keyboard, but this one doesn't use back light, so it's easier on your eyes... never mind, you'll figure it out about 7 years from now), a name tag that says "Aloha, my name is April", a stuffed animal that you got on a trip as a summer camp counselor to Tottori, Japan, and a paperback copy of Lolita from the library, which you're reading out of curiousity because it's your neighbor's favorite book. Perhaps I should let you meet your neighbor letting you know that Lolita is his favorite book so that I don't spoil any pre-notions of your awesome Washingtonian neighbor... nah, it's OK, you have no idea what Lolita is about.

Grown-up-you looks exactly the same, minus the acne (be patient with Mom, she means well, despite how she nags and embarrasses you about your pimples). Speaking of Mom, you and her are besties now. Hard to believe, I know. It's hard to keep in touch with Mom, Dad, and sisters nowadays, so try not to fight with them too much while you have time to be truly together with them. Well, I know that you do fight with them plenty in your time, so just know that it gets better and you will have more independence from them than you ever wanted one day.

What does being a grown up feel like? Right now I feel tired and sick because I have a cold, but I came to work anyway. I feel healthy, otherwise. Last Saturday, I ran 16 miles and came out of it feeling stronger than I've ever felt coming out of a long run. I made country style potatoes, eggs, and almond pancakes from scratch for breakfast, carbonara for lunch (you don't know that is yet, but you'll like it), and beef stew for dinner. I spent Sunday morning cleaning my shared apartment with our boyfriend (standup guy, you'll like him) and the afternoon picnicking with a couple of mutual friends. In the evening, you all went to a 岩盤温浴, which is a Japanese-style spa. Overall, it was both a productive and relaxing weekend.

As for friends, social life as a 25-year-old is still something I'm getting used to. I still contact friends from high school every now and then--some friends, once every couple of months, others, once a year. Your 20th year and the couple of years after was very social--more so than in high school, if you can imagine. Now, at 25, people our age spend half their time being busy, responsible adults and the other half of their time with nowhere to be, a decent amount of money, and no one to go home to, so we go out of town, we go to bars, and we spend a lot of money on food, drinks, and entertainment. Weekends tend to be action packed with groups of friends; weekdays tend to be quiet evenings at home, solo runs around the neighborhood, and homemade dinner with Brian. I sometimes miss having a girlfriend to invite over to do nothing and talk about everything with. I sometimes miss living with a house full of people. But I also realize that this is a temporary stage in my life--something new to try out. So I enjoy it for what it is. Brian usually comes home much later than me, so evenings are mine to do as I please. I'm learning that time spent alone can only be enjoyed differently from time spent with others. When I think of "joy", I usually think about laughing with others, swapping stories, cuddling, playing a game with someone... I'd be hard pressed to imagine a scenario by myself that involves joy.

"Just found joy... I'm as happy as a baby boy" This song lyric just played as I typed this. Little by little, I am learning to find joy when I'm by myself. It's completely different from my usual image of joy. Here's what I've figured out so far, though. Joy by myself is:

• Listening to jazz and classical on a really, really good sound system, like my Bose headphones or Bose speakers. I'll sometimes catch myself staring at nothing but listening to everything--the tiniest sounds of a triangle being struck, the distant beat of a timpani drum.. and my eyes well up with the sound of it all. I don't think it's possible to have such an overwhelming, heartbreaking, and heartwarming moment in music unless I'm completely alone.
• Writing. Uninterrupted writing. Scratching that itch to get something out on paper, rereading what I read, and actually liking it.
• Creating something. When I was in college, this meant crocheting. Lately, I've taken to cooking while listening to opera. It makes me feel like the classiest millionaire living in a penthouse in New York City. 
• Inhaling new information. When I was caught up in the hustle and bustle of keeping up with everyone's birthday shindigs and rendezvous, it was hard to devote any time to comparably tame and stuffy time-wasters like watching documentaries, listening to radio podcasts, and reading non-fiction. God, can you believe you read non-fiction now? And that it's actually interesting to you? 

It's evening, Thursday, now. I'm home by myself. I usually go bouldering on Thursdays after a 5 or 6-mile run and dinner with friends, but I'm still feeling rundown from this cold, so I caught an early bus, train, and another bus home. This morning, besides my usual classes, I had a special "storybook time" at lunch with students who wanted to sit in and listen to a story in English. There were as many teachers as there were students attending, and plenty of pictures being taken. Afterwards, I finished up Lolita and studied another chapter of Japanese. I wanted to cook tomorrow's lunch and squeeze in a quick yoga session, but I decided to just rest and not push myself. I wasn't sure if that was me being lazy or smart, but it's what I decided to do, and I'm learning not to beat myself up over choosing to relax.

Anyway, I think I'll wrap up here with a few words of wisdom, aged at just 25-years: Try not to get lost in that annoying feeling of helpless despair on late nights. Go to bed earlier. Know that bad feelings are part of what makes good feelings good. Know that bad feelings pass, but the only way to get through them is to get through them. Let yourself fall deeply in love--often. You're allowed to fall in love as a teenager and you're allowed to falling in love happens more than once. So does heartbreak. Stop pulling all-nighters to nit-pick on papers or to cram for exams (those all-nighters will end up killing your performance on test day!). Make time for fun. Always say yes to new opportunities. Don't be afraid of making space for yourself in seemingly closed off groups of friends. Go easy on yourself when you make mistakes, but go hard on yourself when you feel like giving up. Some people will walk out of your life--let them go. Cultivate new relationships, but don't neglect old ones. If a relationship seems like a bad one, it is a bad one. Let yourself get really, really emotionally close with people--there's no reason to hold back. If they hurt you, intentionally or unintentionally, if you lose them, or if you drift apart, you'll still have come out having gained from that relationship. Your sanity is precious, take care of it. Your gut-feeling is right, follow it.

Travel.

Sincerely,

Me/you/us

How to Enjoy Your Day without Trying Very Hard

My internal monologue in the morning: 'I like her, she's nice. F*ck that guy, what's his problem?'

My outer monologue, yes, monologue, at work in the morning: "Good morning!" smile. "How are you?" smile. "Do you know the answer? ...Oh, so close!" smile. "Have a good day!" smile.

It's ridiculous, and I mean, absolutely ludicrous how far ahead in the game you can get with these simple steps. You can literally draw a line down the middle of my staff roster and divide everyone by who I like and who I don't like--all the people who I like have one basic thing in common, and it can be summed up in this list. Here's a preview: "Good morning! Have a good weekend! Gosh darn, class was hard today, wasn't it?" smile. smile. smile.

And here it is:

How to Enjoy Your Day without Trying Very Hard:

1. Smile. At People.
I spend a good chunk of my day 8-hour work day in a tiny, personal bubble. People inside my bubble: people who speak English. People outside of my bubble: people who don't. Population of said bubble: me. What can I do to communicate with the outside world? Smile. At people. Who are looking at me. Unless they are babies. Or dogs. It's not weird to smile at babies or dogs when they're not looking at you.

2. Smile everyday.
I make it a point to smile every day with every person I pass on my way to school or in the school halls. I make eye contact, smile, and greet them in one language or another. I may get much too little sleep for my own good, I may too often be recovering from a fun weekend all week long, and I may get impatient with my job more often than I like it, but! ...Mood sour, muscles sore, or brain sleepy--I smile anyway.

I gotta stress that "every day" (or at least, somewhat, reasonably, a little bit often) part though; otherwise, people will assume you're living in morning happy land after getting your twice-a-year bump in the night with a person in a bed if you catch my drift and I think you do. Awwww yiiiissss.

3. Fake it.
I always start off fake smiling in the morning. We're talking really, really fake. I'm 100% sure that I'm doing the opposite of what Tyra Banks taught us all on AMNTM (smile with your eyes, ladies!): flashing pearly whites while being dead in the eyes.

I learned that my Fakey McFakerson smile that would make the Captain on HIMYM proud is better than pretending not to see the ONE OTHER PERSON passing by you in the hall which is, oh, I don't know, ONE A HALF SHOULDER WIDTHS WIDE.

You gotta start your day off smiling. Be cheerful. Be cheesy. You know why? Because eventually (...give it time...) one of those poor souls you flashed your angel grin to--with or without your I-want-to-murder-you eyes--is going to smile back. And it will make you feel good.

Maybe even happy.

It might even make you smile for realsies.

And that's when the magic happens.

4. Be Helpful and Hopeless (sometimes).
After steps 1-3, people will start approaching you for small talk. They may sit and have coffee with you. They might even offer you help when you have that look on your face that you get when you can't understand the instructions on the copy machine because it's in Japanese, though not really because it's in Japanese, but rather because of the 156,302 copy machines you've used at different schools and offices, you can't figure out how to refill the damn ink and find the jammed sheet of paper, no matter what language the copier is in. They will help, and they'll do so with pleasure. People start smiling back and you feel like you might have them convinced that you are a mentally balanced human being. And then, when someone else needs help with something (with caring a piece of paper in the direction which you were going anyway, perhaps), smile and offer a hand. Smile. Be kind. Things will happen. Oh, and best of all, one, maybe two, of your hormone-raging, teenaged students might somewhat express that he/she doesn't totally hate you all of the time.

5. Be Surrounded by People Who Appreciate Your Good Cheer.
I might just have it easy living in a society where donning an I'll-be-darned-would-ya-look-at-that grin all the live long day is not the norm. ...Yeah, OK, it's not the norm anywhere, but smiling at strangers, coworkers, students, and even for cameras is a bit foreign here. For the past two yearbook photos, I'm the only person of twelve smiling in the English department photo. It's so foreign to smile as often as I do here, that people seriously take notice. True story: my coworker told me that a couple of insurance ladies were in the office the day before, asking where I was because I was out for the day. "Insurance ladies? ...I don't know any insurance ladies..." says me. "Really? They described you perfectly and they seemed to know who you are. They said that you're always really nice to them--always smiling," says he. I have no idea who he's talking about, and have never talked to these ladies in my life, but hey. Cool.

Anyway, whether or not you're an idiot like me and decided to pack all your things up and live in a country whose language you--whoops!--don't speak, I think being likable, meeting new people, and enjoying your day can be sweet and simple. Smile and greet; smile and offer help; smile and ask for help; smile and rinse, lather, repeat.

6. Stick to it.
You gotta try it out--the smiling thing--for a good, like, one to five years to see if it works though. If, by the end of the trial period, people still don't like you and you're unhappy and hate your life, well, keep smiling because maybe you haven't been doing it for long enough yet.

OK, that's all. Bye.

Images: By the way, I stole all these images, but hey, Google made it really easy for me. If you know who any of the original creators of these images are, good luck, maybe mention their name in the comments below so they can receive credit for--dare I say it? Sharing their smiles with the world. :D :D HAW HAW.

In the Light of the Supermoon

A superstar / beautiful, charming, lovely, full breasted /

meets a superhero / red, blue, strong and full chested / 

at the supermarket / bright, bustling, loud, and fully stocked.

Together they fight supernatural things / the haunted, the mysterious / their force brings forth shock.

They make love 'neath the Supermoon / round, yellow, now at its fullest.

They are a superlative / the best, the most, the biggest and brightest /

Until a supernova swallows them all / the moon, the sky, their green and blue planet /

Proving that one and for all, it is mightiest.

Photograph by Quynh Ton, Your Shot via National Geographic

Your Time Left on Earth: One Day vs. 30 Years vs. One Hundred Years

This week's Freakonomics podcast had listeners weigh costs and benefits of a different kind of economics question: if you had a 50/50 chance of getting Huntington's disease in the future and you were given a chance to take a test to confirm whether or not you will get the disease, would you take the test? Currently there are no treatments or preventative measures for the disease (excluding choosing not to have children thereby choosing to prevent passing the gene to the next generation).

If I knew that I carried the gene, would I change the way I live my life? Sure, I wish that my family could all be together. But I want to see the world. I also want my independence. I love, miss, and appreciate my family because of our limited time together. I wouldn't be anywhere else than I am right now if I knew that I carried the gene.

If I knew that I carried the gene, would I choose to cut my significant other out of my life so as not to burden him? I suppose that wouldn't be my choice entirely, but I know that with or without the gene, I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

Would I choose a different career path or job? There are many people out there sitting with a desk job that they hate and waiting for some kind of sign, for the "right timing", or otherwise some kind of permission from someone other than their self to go after the job that they really want. Not me. My friends know that I complain about my job every now and then these days, but I complain about it on days that I don't get to be with the kids. I complain about my job on days that I'm not teaching. I love teaching, my coworkers, and my students. Teaching helps me feel connected with people; it makes me feel purposeful; it gives me a reason to laugh, smile, and help someone every day. I can't imagine trading in my teaching job for any other job in the world. Regardless of how many days I have left on Earth, it's what I want to be doing right now.

Would I decide to quit all of my responsibilities and live a life of music, travel, running, and reading? After spending more days unemployed and without responsibility than I liked, I learned that I need to be a part of something bigger. I love reading, but at the end of the day, all I have is a list of books read. I love traveling, but a girl's gotta come home some time. Personal improvement feels wonderful is and important, but it's meaningless unless you can share it with others or use it for a cause greater than your self.

If there's one thing I can be at peace with right now, it's knowing that I do all that I can to lead the most fulfilling life that I possibly can. Not that I'm some self-actualized 24-year-old with nothing but smooth sailing ahead; I have my share of insecurities, disappointments, and am still working hard to make my mark on the world. But I'm living the best I can, whether I have one hundred years ahead of me or one day. I know that I love with my whole my heart, however big or small my heart may be. I seek to be a better person than I was yesterday. I dream early and I dream often. I make plans to make those dreams realities and work at 'em with all my might. I'm happy knowing that battles aren't easily won, that I've fought many, and that I win more than I lose. Not knowing how many more days, years, or decades I have ahead of me won't change how I fight my battles. After all, I could be hit by a car and die regardless of whether I carried the gene for Huntington's or if I didn't carry the gene--in which case, knowing that I had the gene wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Would you live your life any differently if you knew that you carried the gene for Huntington's disease?

In the Philippines: A 92-Year-Old Tattoo Artist

Unfortunately, the video I had posted got deleted. Here's another blogger's post about her own experience with this woman.

She's beautiful.

"I'm very grateful for the visit of people from around the world who want a tattoo because they give meaning to my life." -Whang-od

Here's hoping for a chance to get inked in the motherland by this lady!

"Do Americans Eat Rice?"

“Do Americans like rice?” an earnest Japanese student asked me. As an American and an ex-pat living in Japan, I’m constantly at odds with questions about American culture and tradition, such as  questions about food, dress, religion, politics, education, health care, language, tradition, family values, pop culture, rock culture, poop culture, public transportation, large suburban homes and bustling sleepless cities, Lady Gaga, First Lady Obama, taxes, taxi rates, Disneyland, and Disney World. I was hired to serve as a high school English teacher and post facto international ambassador for Japanese students’ culture-related questions.

 

We Japanese take off our shoes when we enter a building. Do Americans do that?

We Japanese use chopsticks and many small dishes when we eat. How do Americans eat?

We Japanese eat rice with every meal. Do Americans eat rice?

 

Some of their questions are easy to answer:

 

Is it true that Americans often take Advil instead of visiting the doctor? Yes.

 

Is it true that most Americans only use toilet paper and no water to wipe their derriere after they use the toilet? Yes.

 

Some are slightly tricky:

 

Do Americans usually call it ‘autumn’ or ‘fall’?  I’m from California, where we have spring and summer. When the temperature dips below 60°F, we call it winter--so I guess my answer to your questions is: No.

 

Most questions are truly impossible:

 

We Japanese eat cake on Christmas and sweet, sticky rice on New Year’s Day.What do Americans traditionally eat on Christmas and New Year’s Day? Candy canes and, uh, leftover candy canes?

 

What is your favorite American dish? …California burritos?

 

Is your nose piercing part of your American culture? Not really… but well, sure, OK.

 

And finally:

 

Are you half-American?

 

By my black hair, tan skin, round, brown eyes, and 5’0” stature, you might guess that I’m Vietnamese, Hawaiian, maybe part-Mexican, but definitely some kind of Asian. Final answer: full Filipina (by that I mean, both of my parents are from the Philippines… beyond my grandparents generation, “purity” of ethnicity is anyone’s guess). I am a first-generation immigrant. Do Americans like rice? Well, I’m an American, and I have it every day. Do Americans wear their shoes in the house? I’m an American, and I don’t.

 

I grew up with the “it’s our differences that make us unique” mentality—that nothaving a single aspect of culture to unite the United States is what makes America great. We continue to teach youngsters in elementary school about our lack of one shared, common culture under the unit title, “multiculturalism”; in universities, they’re keen on the term “intersectionality”.

 

Despite our culture of don’t-you-dare-assume-who-I-am-or-where-I’m-from and I’ll-identify-as-I-see-fit, if there is one past time we can call truly American, it’s making games of guessing others’ ethnicities. She’s gotta have some Black in her; I bet her dad is Black. He’s definitely White --I don’t know what kind of White, just White. Look at that baby—it’s so cute… it must be mixed.

 

Even in an age when it’s becoming taboo to ask someone, “what are you?”, we know the half-this, half-that racial breakdown of our friends, colleagues, NicoleScherzinger (half-Filipino, a quarter-Hawaiian, and a quarter-Russian), Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (half-Black Nova Scotian, half-Samoan), and President Barack Obama (half-Kenyan, half-“mostly English”). Amongst my group of friends, we take it a step further and specify how many generations our family has been in the United States: American-born Chinese, second-generation Mexican, fourth-generation Japanese, one-half-generation Filipino. I asked one of my White coworkers where he was from because I couldn’t place his accent. South Africa. “How many generations has your family been there?” I asked. “…huh? I have no idea.” My question, of course, was yet another product of our American obsession for the name-that-identity game.

 

Outside of the States, however, I confuse people if I identify as anything but American first. It is surprisingly easy to convince people of my nationality, despite not being a WASP and despite still sometimes being asked by my thoroughly impressed fellow Americans why I speak English fluently. Perhaps my American-ness is made obvious to strangers abroad by the way my tongue curls up on the sides when I pronounce the letter “r” or my round vowels when I pronounce words like “loud” and “sorry” in true West Coast fashion; more likely, my identity is betrayed by something less flattering, like my candidness, loud volume, or daily uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. 

 

In fact, my looks have been so non-telling of anything about my Filipino heritage that when I challenged my class of 14-year-old Japanese students to guess where I’m from, to my naïve surprise, they all guessed correctly on their first try. When I asked what I perceived to be the easier question—“Where do you think my parents are from?”—they enthusiastically shouted, “America!” “Canada!” “Australia!” “England!”. They didn’t guess any Asian countries until I pointed them towards that side of the globe.

 

In our increasingly connected global society, where the color of one’s skin is just finally being understood as an incorrect basis to assume a person’s culture or upbringing, identity labels are now also becoming more complex and less, well, identifying.

 

To my curious students’ credit, their previous English teachers and my foreign coworkers do little to illustrate the definition or difference between culture, heritage, and ethnicity. We teachers consist of a Chinese-Canadian, a Korean-New Zealander, a British-Trinidadian, an Iranian-Brit, and a quarter-Spanish/quarter-Chinese/half Filipino from Australia. Oh, and a Canadian-New Zealander. What does that even mean?

 

Gone are the days that country-hyphen-country necessarily meant where my parents are from-hyphen-my nationality.

 

Gone are the days when the United States carried the title of the lone melting pot of the world. During my recent visit to the Philippines this holiday season, I barely recognized metropolitan Manila as a city of the Philippines: upscale urbanites now consist not only of Filipinos, but also foreign spouses of immigrant Filipinos, their mixed-race families, international businessmen and managers working for call centers, and foreign exchange students studying, believe it or not, English.

 

I’m not claiming that it’s a new phenomenon for cultures and ethnicities to mix. However, I do believe that questions like “where are your parents from?”, “where were you born?”, and “in your culture, do you___?” reveal less and less about an individual. Where were you born? Japan. (What does that reveal to you?) Where are your parents from? The Philippines. (Does that reveal anything more?) What’s your nationality? American. (How about now?) Where does your accent and slang come from? Probably California, maybe even a little from Hawaii, where I lived for a year; or perhaps from mingling with my English teacher coworkers from English-speaking countries like England, Jamaica, Canada, Australia, Scotland, and Singapore.

 

I thought that times were a-changing fast for the Generation-Y global pioneers, but it is a still stranger, unstable, and shrinking world for my 2000s-born students trying to make sense of their own culture and that of others. One of my 16-year-old Japanese students maintains an online romantic relationship with a Russian high school girl; they communicate with each other in English.

 

I’m supposed to teach, or at least be some kind of living example of, foreign culture to my students, but lessons on the subject are moving targets. Perhaps rather than teaching students aspects about particular cultures, we should teach them how to have personal interactions in the global society—that is, not “about” a group of peoples, but rather, how to meet and maintain positive relationships with individuals of different ethnic/national/linguistic/religious backgrounds.

The Simple Life

Just as a skilled photographer helps us appreciate the startling beauty in the most simple, everyday sights, so to must we never forget the good in simplicity.

When I was working in Oakland, it was a struggle to show up to work because it was so. Damn. Hard. I’m not going to get into that too much. Now, it’s sometimes hard to show up to work because I feel so purposeless… On more days than I’m willing to admit, I show up at 8:14 (just barely on time… not that it matters), sit at my desk and do as I please (read a book, write, study Japanese, surf the web…… … … yup, that about covers it), and clock out at 4:00. I usually get bored out of my mind, sitting in silence for 7 hours and 45 minutes without any tasks or responsibilities. Assistant Language Teachers are often ridiculously under-utilized in JET.

Today, I procrastinated in showing up for work. At the last minute, my stomach felt ever-so-slightly uncomfortable, at which point I contemplated calling in sick. Despite this, I slowly marched through my routine in getting ready for work.

I headed out the door and decided that if I was too late to catch the bus—if all my procrastination had actually led me to missing my bus altogether—that I would call in sick. I sauntered up to my bus stop. My bus pulled up at the same moment: three minutes past its scheduled arrival time. ‘Looks like I’m going to work,’ I thought.

The stuffy, warm, humid, overcast weather is surprisingly soothing and comforting. The dimly lit foyer of the school had an atmosphere that I couldn’t quite name—romantic was the first word that came to mind, but not in that it was beckoning for love; more like it was beckoning for sleep… a lazy, happy, deep, catnap kind of sleep.

Kusano-san, the janitor, greeted me so welcomingly and happily at the entrance that I truly felt like someone was happy for me to be here.

The school is quiet. Students are diligently studying and test-taking in their classrooms.

The Japanese (subject) teacher walked by my desk, on his way to his office in the library. He’s always been very fatherly to me. He speaks to me in English. He teaches me about Japanese culture. He asks me about American culture. He always checks to make sure that I’m OK. Today, he caught my eye at the last second and gave me a friendly wave as he continued down the hall.

I ran into another teacher whom I shared my office space with last school year, but has since moved to another office in the school. I don’t see him as often as I used to. He used to approach my desk all the time to ask me about my studies in Japanese, to ask me about running, and—most frequently—to talk to me about Lord knows what. Not me, I don’t know what he was talking about, because I couldn’t understand him. He only speaks to me in Japanese. Either he doesn’t know that I can’t understand what he’s saying, or he doesn’t care. Regardless, I appreciate the effort. When he saw me today, stopped in his tracks in kind of an “at attention” stance (feet together, toes pointed toward me, arms to his sides) and bowed humbly.

“Konnichiwa,” he said. I smiled and attempted my usual awkward, not-quite-Japanese-enough bow. “Otsukaresamadesu,” I said back. Thank you for your hard work. “Ohisashiburi desu ne. Genki desu ka? Kotoshi, mou atsuku narimashita ja arimasen ka?” he said. Long time no see. Are you well? This year, you haven’t been too hot yet, have you?

‘Yes, I’ve been very hot already!’, I wanted to reply. Or, ‘It’s so humid lately!’ or ‘Where is this June rain that everybody has been telling me about?’

“Uh… atsui. Ha ha,” I managed. ‘I’m hot.’

“Ah, sou desu ka? something something something something…” he replied. ‘Is that so?’ was all that I understood.

I smiled back weakly. We still had a flight of stairs and half of a hallway to go before we arrived at our destination.

“Jitsuwa, kinou, marason ga sankashimashita.” I prayed that this meant that I ran a race yesterday.

“Marason? Sugoi ne. Otsukaresama desu. Nan-kiro? Doko ni?” A race? Wow, that’s great. Good job for working hard. How many kilometers was it? Where was it?

I answered. At this point, we arrived at the staff room, our destination. We walked through the threshold together, and Watanabe-sensei announces to the staffroom about my race. I’m then greeted by a chorus of congratulations.

My students also always make me feel welcomed, purposeful, and loved whenever they greet me around the school and in town. I hope that I have the same effect on them. I walked to and from the train station yesterday instead of my usual taking the bus or riding my bike (my bike is still broken). It takes 35-40 minutes to walk from my house to the station. Along the way, I ran into at least 100 of my students from various schools, all of whom were on their way to their respective schools. I waved hello, said good morning, and wished each one a good day. Well, as many of them as I could, anyway. Luckily, many of them were walking in groups of threes or fours, so this made my feat a bit easier.

On my base school days, I’m given odd jobs—small responsibilities to help individuals. I have weekly extra writing practice meetings with three seniors who are applying to top tier universities. I have weekly English club meetings with first-year students who speak a few words of English, but love English or foreign culture, or me (it’s most certainly a foreigner-philic type of love, but I’ll take it), with whom I have no idea what to do each week, but we enjoy each others’ company anyway. I help our current resident student teacher who is studying to be an English teacher. I grade papers to help out my overloaded coworkers.

This is not glitzy, fast-paced, high-stress lifestyle that I imagined (hoped, even) teaching would be. More days are slow-paced than are tiring. I’m paid to work 35 hours a week, work for 10 of those hours a week, and work hard for only 5 of those hours. You could argue (and I often agree) that what I’m doing does not count as teaching.

But this is my job and this is life. Life is about making connection with people. Life is about adjusting and adapting with the situation and environment. Life is about enjoying what you have and being intrigued/surprised/amazed/perplexed at nuances. Each day, we’re given a finite number of hours. It’s up to us to enjoy those hours. We don’t enjoy our life and the days that make up our lives because of what we have or what we do; we enjoy it when we pay attention to what’s around us, inflate good meaning in small interactions, and maintain a positive outlook.

This is life and I am a person. I am a person who teaches. Teachers are people, not just teachers. We’re allowed to have whole lives, not just really hard work lives.

If I can't "find myself" here--no matter where here is--I run the risk of  endlessly roaming the world, hoping that center-edness is out there somewhere. I didn't find peace in a noisy environment; now, I often feel uncomfortable in this too-quiet environment. But it's me that needs to stop and appreciate the good and the everyday, whatever that may be. It's OK to stay hungry for new adventures, it's OK to be ambitious and hardworking, but it’s also OK to be at peace with a simple life. Right now, it's crucial. This is where I live and how I live; I can't put off happiness for next year or the year after when I'm somewhere else doing something else. Right now and always, it's OK to be happy.

The Pursuit of --

You're pursing something.

Right now, you're working towards something.

You want it badly.

What is it? Where is it?

Why do you want it? 

How long have you wanted it?

Will it make you happy? Are you unhappy unless you have it?

Will it fulfill you? Are you unfulfilled until you have it?

What do you want? It's hazy now. Why do you want it? It's hazy now.

It's happiness. It's a better job. It's a healthy relationship. It's more time. It's quality time. It's work. It's recreational time.

It's elusive. It comes in and out of focus.

You're happy. You want to be happier. You have like. You want love. You have a home. You want the world. You have the world. You want a home.

Whatever it is that you want,

I hope you work hard for it.

I hope you don't become fooled with easily attainable things,

and think that you've already won,

and think that the adventure is over.

I hope you don't become distracted from what's important.

I hope that you're forced to make tough decisions along the way.

I hope that you appreciate your growth with each battle in your pursuit.

I hope you collect sweet memories along the way,

I hope you make and cherish supportive and loving relationships along the way,

I hope you become smarter, stronger, and more courageous along the way.

I hope you dream big--bigger than you can ever attain--

not much bigger, only slightly.

I hope that your pursuit never ends.

I hope that you cherish that pursuit.
You're pursuing something.
You're giving it all you've got.
And that's good enough.

We Run the World

Running has helped me in so many ways throughout my travels.

It has helped me get to know my new hometown. My brain and feet connect the scattered landmarks throughout the city and I feel safe and comfortable in my new environment. When I run in a city, I feel like I own the city. I run this town.

I've bonded with new friends about good areas to run, how fast (or in my case, slow) we run, strategies for training, what we eat before/during/after long runs, what we wear during each change of season... and this is all with gestures and broken English and broken Japanese!

I've met people at running events who I would have never met otherwise because we don't speak the same language, we live on different sides of town, and we have different occupations. We see each other at various running events over and over again and are sure to greet each other, catch up, and wish each other luck.

I've run with friends visiting or new to my town to give them a speedy by-foot tour of the city.

I explore new types of terrain in a town that I wouldn't have found by foot, bike, or bus. I sometimes run alongside a river, along the beach, up a mountain, through narrow alleyways, or up to the foot of temples and shrines hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

There are times that I start to focus on speed/distance/time, but then I'm reminded by my favorite running partner to not think about it and just enjoy the run, wherever we may be. Brian and I brought our running shoes while travelling through Asia. Running makes me feel at home regardless of where I'm running: Hawaii, Japan, Philippines, California...  Whenever I lace up my shoes and get moving, I feel free and in my own element. 

When I Grow Up,

I want to teach for 30 years
travel the world
be a published writer
learn how to cut hair and cut people's hair from my garage
host a radio podcast talk show
orbit earth in a space shuttle. maybe go to another orbiting body in space
then retire and become a mail carrier.
I would die a happy woman.

The thing that really gets me juiced is knowing that all of this is entirely possible (that's what's nice about being a 20-something-year-old).

A Weekend in the Woods in Nikko, Tochigi, Japan

I'd say that the first half of Golden Week 2013 was a success--Brian, Noey, and I traipsed across the width of Japan to see a waterfall, mysterious woodland animals, light snowfall (at the end of April!), and clusters of golden, colorful, estately shrines nestled away in the woods. We even managed to squeeze in a morning hike at the tail end of our trip.

On our way up the mountain. I got super dizzy, but I guess it was pretty romantic otherwise.

See No Evil

We only were able to see one of two of the famous waterfalls of the area. Unseasonably high winds caused the ropes way to shut down, so we couldn't take the tour down into the valley to see the waterfall.

Instead, we took an elevator that was built directly into the bedrock down 100 meters to see the other waterfall.  Gentle snowflakes swirled around us; there were also still chunks of ice and snow scattered about the fresh green of spring. Oh, and there was some kind of animal that none of us could identify (some kind of pig? warthog?) taking a dump next to our pretty view.

At sunset, we caught one more beautiful view, this time of a quaint but beautiful bridge that stretched across a calm river.

The next morning, I woke up early, so I left the group to go on a solo morning walk. Here are a few photos from that stroll. My favorite sight that morning is of the row of buddhas gazing at their neighbor, the church.

Good morning, Nikko.

Afterwards, the gang and I saw many, many, many buddhas, and statutes, and shrines, and tress. Oh, so many trees. The mountainside shrines were breathtaking. They were quite different from the temples of Thailand and even the usual shrines that I see all about Japan.

These shrines were not only red, but also gold, bright blue, and shiny black with white intricately-carved reliefs and statues. One of the shrines even had a white, "sacred horse" on duty. The shrines and statues were so stately, I could hardly believe I was in Japan anymore. I was quickly transported back 1000 years to ancient Japan--not that I have any idea what ancient Japan looked like. I also missed out on the audio tour in English, so unfortunately, as usual, I had no idea what I was looking at. It was beautiful, though.

Oh, and we saw a wild monkey cross the road. We were quite excited about that, but we don't have any pictures for proof, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Hear No Evil

We took a serene nature hike through parks, small, hidden-away neighborhoods of log cabins, past an empty shrine, and up a steep hillside. 

Eat No Evil

The eats were amaze-chicken-balls. We made dinner arrangements at a restaurant that has gained quite a reputation among foreign travelers for the owner's charm and the restaurant's interior decor. We called ahead of time to ask if we needed a reservation; that conversation went something like this:

(In Japanese)

Restaurant owner: Hello?

Me: Hello, excuse me, can you speak English?

Owner: No English! Do you speak Japanese?

Me: Oh, uh... Yeah, a little.

Owner: OK, great!

Me: (pause) Uh, I want to eat at your restaurant. Reservation.. uh.. do I, uh...

Owner: I see! Today?

Me: Yes--

Owner: OK! What time?

Me: 7:00 please.

Owner: For how many people?

Me: 3 please.

Owner: 3 people, OK... how about 6:00, is that OK?
Me: (checks time--it's 5:50) Uh..

Owner: Come at 6:00, OK?
Me: Well, we will be late, how about 6:15?

Owner: Yes, OK, see you at 6:15!

When we get there, after getting over the shock of the restaurant, we also find that the restaurant is completely empty. The only other customers came in at 6:30, and they finished their dinner before we did. 

But no matter.

The food was absolutely delicious and the elderly lady (the restaurant owner) chatted us up about where we were from, about our jobs, about baseball--you name it. She even asked us to teach her some new words in English.

The walls were spectacular. People have tacked up old IDs, business cards, wedding photos, a baby photo, handwritten messages, and even a USC t-shirt. I'm happy to say that we left a part of ourselves in the restaurant, too, though a very small part.

The food was delicious! The best yakisoba I've ever had and yummy yakitori and chicken balls. Even the rice was good.

Dinner on night number two was a huge bowl of spicy ramen with "30% thicker ramen noodles". I deem such ramen as 30% more delicious.

Cheers, Nikko.

Thanks for the relaxing weekend.